There Goes a String
by Anabelle Stoan
Summary: Sherlock shows a raw side when a friend commits suicide Warning: involves suicides and may be sensitive


I think everyone is born

With little strings attached to

Their heart.

And when they get called a

Name, there goes a string.

Snip, snip.

When they love one who

Loves nother, there goes

another string.

Snip, snip.

Or when they hate the

Very bones of their being,

There goes yet another string.

Snip, snip.

At one point you're left with no

Strings; and you're only option left is

To hang yourself by the very strings

That held you up.

 _(Julie Martinez)_

* * *

"She's going to die, Sherlock!"

"Mm." He wasn't listening, his head in another experiment. There was a microscope in front of him that had his attention. Blowtorches, Bunsen burners, and petri dishes covered the table.

My hands shook as I held the paper in my hands. Without having to read it twice, I knew exactly what was happening. It had everything: the handwritten note, the signature, the few smudged places where tears had fallen.

"Sherlock!" He looked up. His face was blank. There wasn't time for him not to be listening.

"She's going to die!" I repeated, getting frantic. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at me.

"Who?" He asked.

"The girl who's been here for two weeks!"

"Renette?" I handed him the note.

 _Mr. Holmes,_

 _Being with you and Mr. Watson has been amazing. It has meant a lot to me, more than I think you'll realize. But I can't go on anymore. I'm nothing, just a waste of space. You'll find that life is better without me. You'll be fine, I promise. I know that there's more to you than you let on. It's okay, I do it too - hide behind someone else so that I can pretend I don't feel pain. If it makes any difference to you, I think you're beautiful underneath, too. You don't have to hide. If you really care about me, let me go. Be strong, Sherlock, for me. I love you._

 _Renette_

* * *

Sherlock read it and put it down on the table beside his blowtorch.

"Sherlock! We have to find her!"

"Mm…No."

"What do you mean, no? She's going to kill herself, Sherlock!"

He looked up at me. There was an almost sad glimmer in his eyes.

"You can't save her, John. She'll find a way. Caring won't help her."

"Caring is the only thing that will. She needs you or she doesn't have a shot. We have to try."

"Fine." Reluctantly, he put down microscope and put on his coat and scarf. We headed out of the flat. I hailed a cab.

"Any idea where she might be?" I asked, sitting in the cab next to Sherlock.

"Barts." He didn't hesitate.

"What?" Before the word came out of my mouth, I knew exactly how it fit in to place. "She's doing what you did." I looked at Sherlock for a response, but he was focused on the scenery out of the window. He didn't appear to have heard a word I said. I sighed and turned to watch for her, getting more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by.

When we got to Barts, Sherlock immediately got out of the cab and walked up to the hospital, leaving me to pay once again. I jogged in after him. The stairs seemed steeper than usual as we ran up them. Sunlight broke through as he opened the door that led to the roof.

She was standing on the edge, the way Sherlock had before he jumped. I fought a growing ache through me. It was all too familiar.

"Renette." Sherlock said, his voice desperate.

"I told you not to come." Renette snapped. She sighed, her shoulders slightly hunched over. Her head hung low, looking at the street below her.

"I made him come." I said.

"I figured you did. You're the doctor, always trying to save people. You can't save me. Not this time."

"You don't have to do this."

"Yeah. Next time, tell that to someone who you actually care about."

I looked over at Sherlock, who was slowly making his way forward. He was focused on her, not paying attention to anything else.

"I do care. Trust me. You can be okay. You can get through this."

"No. If you cared you wouldn't have come. Don't waste your time, John. I'm not worth it."

"Renette." Sherlock spoke up, keeping his voice soft. "Please…Come back." He was only about a foot behind her.

She turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really. You're going to be okay, I promise. It's better this way. I love you." She turned back, facing the street.

"No." Sherlock reached out to grab her waist and keep her on the roof. He got there a second too late.

Renette leaned over the edge and fell, exactly the way Sherlock had two years ago. I ran to where she had been. Daring to look over, I saw her body hit the ground. Sherlock sank to his knees. His head was in his clenched hands. He was breathing hard.

Struggling not to give in to the nausea, I sat down next to Sherlock. An ambulance sounded from below us. I looked at the ground, not feeling anything but numb. Time didn't seem to pass until we became shadowed by the night sky. Standing up to go back to the flat, I noticed that Sherlock hadn't moved, nor had his breathing slowed.

"Sherlock, we should go."

He lifted his head up. His normally pale face was even more so, his eyes red and puffy. Slowly, he pushed himself up from the ground. He swayed slightly as we made our way out of the hospital. The cab ride was silent. Walking up to our flat, Sherlock seemed to walk slower than usual. Once we got in to it, he started to dig through his files. He was frantic.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

He started pulling out files and stacking them on the table. I hadn't seen him so determined. He would pull the different files towards him, his eyes darting back and forth, occasionally pulling one out of the drawer and putting it on the table, then repeating the process. I just stood and watched.

"Sherlock…"

He turned around to face me.

"I'm fine, John. Whatever happened today doesn't matter now. I have work to do." Sherlock's voice was sharp and sliced through the air like a knife.

"She was a person, Sherlock! She cared about you! And while you might find it easier to bury yourself in your work to hide your emotions, there are those of us who are actual human beings who it affected!" I started to tear up.

"Everyone dies, John. Everyone's time will come and caring about them won't help anyone else. You couldn't have stopped her. What happened, happened and there's nothing you can do. So instead of mourning her loss, move on like she would've wanted you to and focus on helping the rest of the world while you're at it."

I grabbed my coat off the rack and put it on.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some fresh air."

* * *

Only after getting out of the flat did I realize that I had no idea where to go. Mary and I weren't talking, Sarah hadn't had much contact since the episode with the black lotus, Lestrade was probably working, and Mycroft wouldn't care unless it meant getting on his brother for it. As I walked down street after street, resisting the urge to cry, I stumbled along Molly's house. She would listen. I knocked on her door. Molly opened it wearing skinny jeans and a form fitting white t-shirt. Her hair was down and framed her face.

"John, I didn't expect to see you here. Is everything okay?"

"It was someone I knew…" I trailed off, starting to choke on a sob.

"Do you want to come in?" She asked opening the door further and stepping to the side.

I made it just inside her doorway with the door closed before the tears started to fall.

"Oh god. John, sit down, I'll put on some tea." She led me inside to her living room and gestured to the sofa. "I'll be right back." She left in to another part of the flat. Five minutes later she emerged from her kitchen with a kettle and cups. Once she had poured the tea, she sat down next to me.

"What's wrong?" She said, rubbing my back while I cried.

"She died. Just like Sherlock did."

Those were the only words I could get out before I completely broke, sobbing while Molly held me. I tried to speak in between the gasps for air.

"Sherlock didn't care…" _but he did, didn't he? You saw the way he collapsed. He was like that for hours._

"He could've saved her…" _You saw the way Sherlock was two years ago. No one could've saved him then, not even you._

"All he cares about is his bloody work…" _He jumped off of a building for you._

I don't remember how long we sat there.

"I'm sorry, Molly, I don't know what happened to me."

"Its fine, John. Really." She walked in to her kitchen and came back with a damp washcloth.

"This will bring down the swelling and redness."

"Thank you." I took the cloth and put my face in it while I tried to control my breathing. Sherlock couldn't know that I had been crying.

"Anytime. If you ever need to talk or get away, you can always come here."

We sat and talked about other things for another thirty minutes until the effect of the sobbing had disappeared. I stood up to leave.

"Thank you again, Molly."

She walked me to the door. Really looking at her for the first time, I saw that her cheeks were tear stained. I didn't say anything in case she didn't want me to notice. After giving her a nod, I left and started the walk back to Baker Street.

* * *

When I got to the door of the flat, I could hear crashing from inside. I ran up the stairs, fearing the worst. Sherlock was looking for something. He was tossing objects around the room, unable to find whatever he was looking for.

"Where are they, John?"

"Where are what? I don't know what you're talking about."

"My cigarettes, John! Where did you put them?" He didn't raise his voice often, but he was frantic now.

"I don't know."

He sighed, clearly aggravated.

"You know what, never mind." He muttered something under his breath, then stormed off to the bath and slammed the door.

I decided to get off to bed. Sleep was restless and the times I was asleep were full of nightmares.

I woke up at six in the morning to violin music. Suddenly, I felt slightly sympathetic. He probably hadn't slept. As I padded down the hall, I realized that I hadn't heard the song before. He was composing. It sounded sad.

"Sherlock."

"John."

He was facing the window, his violin in his hand.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I…um…got a case, so if you would like to come with me…" He didn't finish the sentence, but I knew that was his way of telling me that he wanted me there with him.

I nodded and went to get my coat on.

We spent the day at the scene. Sherlock hardly said a word, except for the few deductions he made.

After we finished for the day, Sherlock and I went out for dinner at a restaurant on our street. I was starved. It didn't occur to me until after we left that he hadn't touched his food, not that he ate much anyway.

When we got back to the flat, he again buried himself in the work he had going on his own. Not long after I had got into bed, I heard the bathroom door close. I waited for him to go back to work or get in bed. It was an hour before that happened. He went back to his work and was still there when I drifted off to sleep.

The next day was the same. The violin in the morning, the case, dinner, Sherlock in his own work, the bath, and back to work again. This went on for weeks.

* * *

When I went down the hall towards the music one morning, I could tell Sherlock had changed. He looked unnaturally thin, his robe hanging loose. When he asked me to go on the case with him, his voice was softer and less harsh.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to face me. I had to blink to make sure what I saw was real. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were red like he had been crying, the only colors in his deathly pale face. It couldn't have been the same Sherlock that I had known.

I opened my mouth to say something, but wanting to avoid another argument, I closed it again.

Sherlock collapsed during the case later that day.

"Sherlock!"

I ran to him and placed my hand on his shoulder to shake him. As soon as I had touched him, he turned over, confused.

"John?" He tried to push himself up, blinking a few times in the light.

"Nope. Don't get up."

"John!" He sounded stronger than he had that morning, so I helped him up and led him to a bench. We sat there for a few minutes. Sherlock made the first move to get up. He swayed a little.

"Sherlock? Are you sure you're okay?"

He hesitated, like he was trying to process what I had said.

"Yes. Fine." He knotted his eyebrows, confused by the question.

"Okay." It was best not to argue with him.

The rest of the day went by without a hitch. That night I stayed up with Sherlock to make sure he was okay. He stayed in the bath for close to two hours. I eyed him as he came out. He was breathing heavily, his ribs showing though his shirt. Sherlock noticed me watching him.

"Tea?"

"That sounds lovely if you're up for it."

He nodded and walked in to the kitchen.

When he came back, I decided it was time for a chat.

"We need to talk, Sherlock."

He looked like he was about to put up a fight, but instead sighed and sat down beside me on the couch.

"Are you okay?"

"John."

"No. Seriously, Sherlock."

"I don't care to talk about my emotional status."

"Don't do this Sherlock. Not now."

"I'm fine, John."

"You blacked out on the case today. It's pretty obvious that you aren't okay."

"I don't need you to analyze my life."

"This is about Renette, isn't it?"

"John, that was weeks ago. I know that maybe you haven't moved on, but the rest of us have."

"Sherlock, you don't eat, you don't talk, and you look like you've been on drugs."

He looked down at his hands in his lap.

"Like you've been any better…" He trailed off

"For once, can you think about anything other than yourself?"

His face changed slightly, like he had been hurt. There was a sad glimmer in his eyes. Sherlock got up again locked himself in the bathroom.

I put my head in my hands. So much for that. I had to get out of the flat. Molly had invited me back in case anything else happened. She would understand.

After arriving at her house, she fixed me tea and biscuits. I needed to vent, so I told her the whole story.

"He's so selfish, he doesn't care about anyone except himself."

"He cares about you."

"Mm no…" I glanced up to see Molly searching my face, sympathy written all over it. "Gosh look at me, I'm turning in to him."

"John, Sherlock is not one to talk about his feelings. He's always locked up because he thinks that if you can't see what he's feeling, he can't feel them."

"He can't live his life acting like no one cares about him. If he only understood that his actions affect others. I should head back to the flat, though, he's probably still locked in the bathroom, but if he collapses again, I want to be there."

Molly said good bye and I started the way home.

He was still in the bathroom when I got back, but came out after half an hour.

"I'm sorry, John."

I hesitated. Sherlock never apologized.

"…It's okay."

He gave a slight smile, picked up his violin and started to play.

Two days later we finished the case. Sherlock seemed a little better. We were in need of some things, so I went out to the store, mainly because Sherlock was too lazy to leave the flat and I also didn't want anything to happen again.

When I arrived back at the flat, it was silent. I walked up the stairs and opened our flat door.

* * *

My grocery bags fell out of my hands. Sherlock was in the middle of the floor on his knees. In his hand he had my gun pointed against his head. His hand was trembling, his finger on the trigger.

"Sherlock!" I ran, tackled him, and wrestled the gun out of his hand. It shot the wall. I threw the gun out of the window.

He crumpled in to a ball on the floor. I had never seen Sherlock cry, but he sobbed then, his shoulders heaving. Sherlock started to hyperventilate. Within a half hour he fell unconscious. I pulled out my phone and called the hospital, then Mycroft. When I pulled his sleeve up to check his pulse, I noticed deep scars running down his arm.

"Oh Sherlock…What have you done?" I whispered, feeling tears falling down my cheeks.

 _You can't leave, I'm not ready. Please. I can't lose you again._

The ambulance arrived and took Sherlock in a stretcher. As soon as they had left, I walked in to Sherlock's room to see if I could find anything that would've led to this. Nothing could've prepared me for what I saw.

Everything was in disarray. The walls had been clawed. He had a picture of Renette on his dresser that he had written all my fault across. There was a note also on the dresser that had my name on it. I picked it up and read it.

 _John,_

 _I'm not a hero. I couldn't save her. I can't save anyone. All I ever did was bring people down. You deserve so much better than that. I can't live anymore. I'm sorry. You were the only person who ever cared. You were my best friend. Goodbye, John._

 _Sherlock_

He was planning on dying. I stuck the note in my pocket and called a cab to go to the hospital.

Mycroft met me when I got there. He didn't say much. We went to Sherlock's room.

He was out for an hour. Mycroft had left a little earlier to get back to work, but said he'd come back. I spent the majority of the hour just studying Sherlock's face. Every detail, every crease, every strand of his hair, the angles of his cheeks, the color and fullness of his lips, the paleness I had come to be familiar with. If I had come back to the flat a minute later, I would have lost him.

Before the hour was up, I was afraid he was gone. _Come on Sherlock, stay with me. I need you_.

He was my best friend, but there was something more than that. I didn't love him, but he made my life complete. Without him, I would still be in therapy every week, still having nightmares every night, nothing ever happening to me. If he left, I would have nowhere to go.

* * *

When he woke up, he started to panic.

"No. Sherlock, calm down. It's okay. You're going to be okay."

His eyes were glassy.

"John…" he trailed off as tears ran down his face.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, looking down as his scars. "If I had known…"

Sherlock gave me one look and I knew. I looked down at my lap, unable to meet his eyes. Hot tears fell in to my hands. I felt something brush the side of my face. I looked up. Sherlock reached out and brushed some of the tears off my cheeks. He smiled slightly.

"I thought I lost you…" I said.

I pulled the note out of my pocket.

"I know that I've come off as an obstacle for you lately. You could've said something, you know. You're my best friend. I care about you. I don't know what I would've done if you died. I wouldn't forgive myself…"

"Please…Don't…its okay."

I looked at Sherlock. He wasn't looking at me anymore.

"Promise me something?"

He looked up.

"If you're going to do something like this again, just tell me. I don't want to lose you…"

Sherlock didn't say anything. Knowing now wasn't the time to make amends, I left to talk to Lestrade, who had heard about it and come to see how Sherlock was doing.

He was sitting in the waiting room when I got there. He stood up when he saw me.

"How is he?"

"Alive. Though not much up for talking. I suspect he wasn't planning on being saved. Some alone time might be good for him. I wouldn't want to overwhelm him."

"That's good. I should get back to work, but I'll come back tonight to see him."

I nodded my thanks and watched him leave. I stayed at the hospital for another hour, but the air of the whole thing got to me.

I called Molly. She answered on the second ring.

I started the conversation. "Sorry for the call…um…something has come up. Mind if I drop by?"

The line was silent for a few moments. "Sure. I'll be here."

"Thanks. You don't know how much it means."

I walked to her flat. As soon as I knocked, she opened the door and embraced me.

"Oh John…I'm so sorry."

I sighed. "Who told you?"

"Lestrade."

I didn't reply. We sat in the flat with tea. I couldn't feel anything.

That night, I gathered the courage to go back to the hospital and see him.

Lestrade was outside smoking.

"You don't smoke."

"Sherlock doesn't attempt suicide."

He had a point.

"Ready?"

Lestrade nodded and we entered the hospital.

The hospital staff made us sign in and then gave us the room number. We walked up the stairs. Lestrade was breathing hard. I stopped and turned to face him. He braced himself against the wall.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just never thought I'd see Sherlock like this."

"You and me both." I muttered.

* * *

The floor was bustling. _How can they move around so lightly? They see people die every day and it's like nothing happened, nothing changed._

I knocked on Sherlock's door. There was nothing. I pressed on it gently. It creaked open. The bed was empty and the sheets were folded.

The desk in the middle had people, I walked over.

"Has Sherlock Holmes been discharged?"

"Just a second, sir." The nurse replied. "No. He hasn't."

"Do you know if he's run to the toilet?"

"There was one in his room, so he shouldn't have left."

"Okay, thank you."

I went back to his room with Lestrade behind me.

The bathroom door was open. No one was there.

Lestrade spoke up. "He could have been taken out for tests. I see if I can find his nurse. She would know if he left."

I hesitated and considered the idea. Then I saw the open window. My heart dropped as I walked over to it and looked on to the street below.

I ran out of the room and to the desk.

"Sherlock's gone."

The nurse looked at me, confused.

"Sorry?"

"He's gone. He's not in his room and his window is open."

She stood up and called the police.

"We have a patient who left the hospital. He wasn't authorized…No…I don't know…He was suicidal…Sherlock Holmes…Yes, the detective…Just find him…Thank you."

She turned to me. "They're looking for him now. Why don't you just wait here at the hospital and we'll keep you posted."

"I want to help look for him."

"Sir, it's better if you stay here."

I bit my lip to keep from saying something that I would regret. Greg had left to get his team out looking for Sherlock, so I was alone.

In those moments, I felt nothing at all. It was like someone had built a toy and forgot to put the pieces in, leaving the empty shell. I felt as though I had fainted. Blank and in the dark, but still alive - that place between life and death and its just nothingness. I don't know anything that happened in that time, whether I was sitting or standing, if I talked at all, or even if anyone I knew stopped by to see how I was. The wait seemed to drag on forever.

* * *

Lestrade finally came back, his head bowed.

"What is it?"

"We found him, John…"

There was a glimmer of tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry…he's gone."

A sob caught in my throat. The room started to spin as I felt my knees buckle. Lestrade caught me before I hit the ground. He pulled me back up and put my arm around his shoulder. I didn't know where he was leading me, but I didn't have the energy to resist. It was hard to breathe. We got outside and he sat down beside me on a bench.

"John…" His voice shook. I looked over at him and noticed a tear falling down his face.

I shook my head.

"They found him by the side of the road. By the time authorities got to him, he was already dead. A car was there. The driver said he jumped in front of it. He killed himself, John. I'm sorry."

It was silent for a few minutes.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded, afraid if I spoke, I would start to cry.

"The police want a report, so if you're okay going back to your flat, I should get back."

We stood up. Lestrade embraced me before he left. As he walked away, I knew what I had to do. I got to the flat and stood there for a few minutes, taking in everything. Sherlock was in every part of it. There was a pen and paper in a drawer of the desk. I wrote one to Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and Mary, then placed the notes on the table. The people I cared about most other than Sherlock.

* * *

I wanted to be near Sherlock when it happened, so I stayed in the flat, but went in to his room. There was rope on the kitchen table that Sherlock had used some of for experiments. I brought it and my armchair to Sherlock's room and ties an end of the rope to the ceiling fan. The other end was looped.

I climbed on the chair and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock…"

The loop went around my neck and I scooted the chair out from under me. I took in the room. Sherlock's note was in my pocket. I had failed him. My thoughts kept drifting to him, being with him again. Everything went black.


End file.
